


It's More than Enough

by toastyZil



Category: Homestuck, MSPA Forums
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Feelings, Fluff, Gay Bar, How Do I Tag, Humanstuck, Jokes, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Romantic Fluff, Stand-Up Comedy, this originally was going to be in my ironic stories series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 08:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastyZil/pseuds/toastyZil
Summary: Dave watches his boyfriend doing stand-up comedy from the back of a bar and thinks about things.(Repost because my computer is fucked up)





	It's More than Enough

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally going to be an addition to my hawt yaois ;3 series but then it started raining and i was like "u kno waht let's type this shit instead" so here u go
> 
> i tried to make it fancy. tried.

“Just saying, man! No homo-jomo-fomo! I’m straight! Just ask my boyfriend in the back there!” He cracks the joke this time—in public as well in fact—and no longer does his face become hesitant with a wince or his brows furrow as soon as an audience member becomes wary. No, it seems that as of late he is no longer afraid. 

He points at you in the back; to humor him and his crowd, you raise your arm and wave, blowing a kiss with a flirty wink. The rustic low-light of the bar with only the stage lights seemed to have masked your presence, but the point gets across to him even from the distance. And that’s enough. 

Even beyond the crowd’s cheers and laughs, he always looks at you again and again with many of his elaborate jokes, sometimes just to look at you.

“So last week my nanna had the  _ audacity _ ! To bake me another fucking cake! And—“ Ah yes, what his audience had gone to see. You always love to see him tell his stories—they’re always the same, but his jokes are always new. Always light and cheerful (and kind of dumb) with the hint of euphoria perfect for the tipsy or the sober. “—my dad comes in, with his super dad man voice, y’know? Like the feeling after taking a piss, you had to hold in. Sorry, dad—shit—!” Definitely stupid but always enough.

You love it when he’s up there, and you know he loves it, too. He’s his best up there: confident, charming, neat. His bedhead, while indeed—to put it bluntly— _ sexy _ in some minds, is unprofessional, but here, it’s perfect. He doesn’t have to put on a suit; he doesn’t have to follow the rules of a fancy show or theater. He’s  _ free _ up there. 

In the back of your mind, you wonder if it was fate that you two were lucky to stumble into the same bar, smokey, musky, and burning with the stench of sweat and alcohol. You, previously nothing but humble disc jockey, and him, the indie, neighborhood comedian. Even since he was fresh off of the market, his jokes still have yet to lose their luster. It escalated, obviously from there, your relationship with him, but the surprise comes in his first move, asking  _ you  _ out for a date rather than vice versa.

You still recall meeting his sister and him meeting yours and the antics between your families and the whirlwind that ensues. Perhaps your love is blind, but you can’t bring yourself to see his faults when he’s so perfect and so  _ himself _ . That’s all you want. It’s average, it’s so unbelievably cliché. You can’t bring yourself to care. 

His act ends; he’s off the clock. You briefly recall the soft pattering of the rain outside to make a mental note as you walk up to the stage while the crowd claps. Whether you remember the rain at all doesn’t really matter to you at the moment. 

He catches his breath and your gaze as he steps down from the stage. “Dave, what time is it? Can you check for me?” The crowd turns back to their own conversations, and a small band plays soft, idle music in the background. “Should we head back now?” He hugs you close with one arm around your shoulders once he picks up his keys, bringing you into his chest. It’s a simple gesture yet something to find comfort in—another reason to love him.

You find your voice. “It’s about nine; we can head back if you're tired.” His face smirks a little more, brightens that holy bit that makes people feel easy as if they can breathe again once more. It’s just enough. 

“That’d be nice,” he replies, “I’m honestly pooped. Just thinking about cake makes me sick!” His hands move to express, emphasize, and punctuate every emotion and word he says or shows. One of his arms remains around your shoulders still, possessive yet protective, accommodating you but not hindering your presence in his arm. Little things as if he’s yours and unwilling to part from you even physically make your heart swell.

“Hey, John.”

“Yes, Dave?” 

“You were good tonight.”

He doesn’t know what to say at first, perhaps baffled by your lack of twist of sarcastic, elaborate metaphors and rants. Finally, he laughs and says, “Thanks! I felt like I was good today! It always feels nice after a good show.”

Perhaps you’re just tired, tipsy, or a little less than lucid, but you just want to listen to him. You take a deep breath and listen to his heartbeat and speaking as you both go back to the hotel. 

The night is young and so are the both of you. The rain is slight, but the sky is clear enough on one side to show the moon and stars. The sky is blue, purple, and black with some whites peppered in, dim from the city lights but there; the moon shines as always with clouds blocking some of the cast. It’s picture perfect—right for the preservation picking. Yet, the time didn’t feel right to capture the moment, lest it is foiled. 

Would it remain in memory or be forgotten in vain? You figure it doesn’t matter; the present is what matters to make the best of it all. He’s there—as long as he’s there, it’s more than enough.

He places a kiss on your head and nuzzles your hair briefly before speaking. “Dave, what are you thinking about right now?”

An odd question he likes to ask, “Nothing too much in particular. Just random stuff.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Crows, the rain, and the sky, I guess.”

“Thinking about taking a picture?”

“Hmm? Not this time for me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but a picture wouldn’t live up to this.”

“I can see what you mean. Not enough I guess.”

Silence afterward. If this was how it was previously, you would have considered it awkward. It’s as if that barrier has been removed as of late, however. Your body feels light yet drunk and tingles slightly as you settle closer to him in the backseat of the cab, the driver minding his own.

In the morning you’ll both be on the road to catch another show or concert. It doesn’t matter anymore where you go or the time you arrive, the scene or the weather. Anywhere you go is where you’ll end up, and both of you will follow each other until the end, whenever it happens.

It will be a hustle nonetheless, adrenaline with a time set to  _ early _ . You can’t care about that now. 

“Dave?” He opens one of his arms

You lay your head on his chest. “Yeah?” 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, John.”

He is more than worth the stress _.  _

_ It is enough. _

**Author's Note:**

> hey i write and draw shit with my gf on tumblr
> 
> https://yam-eggs.tumblr.com/
> 
> ask for stories, ask me to draw ironic furry porn idc


End file.
